


Different

by nothingnothingtralala



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: ...eventually, Adrien Agreste Is a Little Shit, DJWifi, F/M, I have no idea where this is going, Identity Reveal, LadyNoir - Freeform, Reunion, Reverse Miraculous Ladybug Love Square, Shipping fic, UST, adrienette - Freeform, breaking the fourth wall bc I have no shame, i know this is so cliché but i don't even care, love square but different, no there will actually be some plot, plot? what plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-10-28 04:18:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10823604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingnothingtralala/pseuds/nothingnothingtralala
Summary: How much can one person really change? Not much, you'd think... but Marinette soon discovers that after five years away, Adrien Agreste, along with a lot of other things in her life, is very different indeed.





	1. Reunion

“ _Et merde_. I’m going to be late.” Marinette grabbed her phone from her bed, checked the time, and groaned. “Not going to be. I _am_ late. Alya’s going to incinerate me.”

She checked her reflection once more in the mirror, trying to quell the simmering mess of nerves and anticipation in her stomach. _This is nothing special_ , she reminded herself firmly. _Just a coffee with some old friends_.

_Mon Dieu, I’m going to be sick._

A pair of anxious blue eyes stared back at her. She had spent far longer than necessary applying meticulous makeup, ensuring that her winged eyeliner was _perfect_ and carefully using a makeup wipe to remove the smudges that her shaking hand had made as she put on mascara. The effect was to make already large eyes even larger, and she decided irritably that she looked exactly like a terrified fawn. Not a good start. Why hadn’t she taken Alya’s advice? Alya had told her that if she wanted to look professional she should go for a dark red lipstick, the faintest hint of blush, and a light touch of mascara with perhaps some carefully shaded eyeshadow. Marinette had dismissed that as taking far too long and had instead just upped her usual eyeliner. She now regretted this.

Her dark hair was pulled up into a high bun, and she made a face at it and pulled at a few silky strands so they fell forward to frame her face, the much longer remnants of the fringe she had had years ago. Buns were supposed to look _chic_ and sophisticated, but somehow on Marinette they always just looked messy and rushed. Well, it was too late to do anything else. She would just have to look like a stupid, untidy deer child.

“Marinette,” said a small, worried voice that emanated from the cute handbag Marinette was wearing, “shouldn’t you be going?”

“I’m just leaving, Tikki,” Marinette promised her, showing no signs of moving. She checked her outfit for the millionth time. After hours of agonising, she had finally caved and put on the pretty summer dress with the thin straps and short, flared skirt that Alya called her ‘flirty dress’ because of the way its sweetheart neckline perfectly straddled the line between modesty and seduction. It had a pattern of red roses all over it and Marinette considered it one of the most successful clothing items she had ever made. That didn’t stop it looking silly now, though. “The skirt is too short!” she moaned. “If there’s any wind at all the whole street will see my underwear.” (She’d put some nice ones on – just in case.) “What if he thinks I’m trying too hard to be attractive? Maybe I should change into jeans.”

Tikki popped her head out of the handbag, a resigned expression on her tiny face. “You look lovely,” she said firmly. “Now go, before Alya calls you and breathes fire down the phone.”

“Good point.” Marinette cast one last, longing look at the reflection and then left the room, grabbing her keys on the way. She’d locked herself out of her flat enough times (and been rescued by Tikki’s ability to fly through doors) that she’d started leaving herself notes to remember them. Though she needed the keys for her car, she’d only had it for a couple of months now and she still wasn’t used to using it.

Having spent most of her life using public transport, she had baulked at the idea of learning to drive – it seemed a recipe for disaster, given her notorious clumsiness. Unfortunately, her tiny, cosy flat was on the outskirts of Paris, and realistically buying train or bus tickets to get to work every day was just far too expensive. Marinette had gloomily accepted the need to pass her driving test, and had been gifted her cute little red Fiat Punto as a reward by her parents when she did. She was rapidly becoming attached to it, in spite of her initial fears, and enjoyed the feeling of independence it gave her – though nothing could compare to swinging through the skies with a magic yo-yo.

Deciding that the stairs were the quicker option, she ignored the lift and clattered loudly down them, almost breaking her ankle in her wedge sandals once or twice as she swung round corners. She checked her phone again. Oh man, she really was late. This was going to be so embarrassing – now she’d be making an entrance, not arriving unobtrusively as she had hoped.

She threw her bag and jacket onto the front seat, conscientiously checked her mirrors, and started the car. She was still a little nervous while driving, and hated feeling rushed, as it tended to panic her. _Calm down, calm down,_ she chanted to herself as she pulled out of the tucked-away carpark and onto the side road that led to her block of flats. Tikki flew out of the handbag and took her accustomed perch on the rear-view mirror – she liked to keep an eye on the other traffic and warn Marinette of any potential problems.

Ed Sheeran’s latest single began to play on the radio, and Marinette relaxed into her drive, singing along to the English words with an accent so atrocious it would have given her _collège_ English teacher a heart attack. She made surprisingly good time into the centre, given that it was a weekend, and began to hope that she would only be awkwardly late instead of disastrously so.

It happened when she was only five minutes from her destination. She was on a busy main road, paying attention mostly to the sugary Katy Perry song that was now playing, when Tikki suddenly squealed, “Look out!” A white BMW had seemingly appeared from nowhere and pulled out onto the road in front of her, just metres away.

Marinette’s heart gave an enormous _thump_ in her chest and she gasped and slammed the brakes on. The Punto screeched to a halt with seconds to spare, and a shock of adrenaline rushed through her system as she realised quite how close it had been. The BMW driver, seemingly unbothered by his rude and dangerous action, accelerated away without so much as a hesitation, driving at what Marinette was pretty sure was a good twenty kilometres per hour over the speed limit. Her hands on the wheel shook as she began to move again, a mixture of fury and fright keeping her heart pounding.

“I’m sorry, Marinette,” said Tikki contritely. “I didn’t see him until it was too late.”

“It’s not _your_ fault,” Marinette reassured her. “That was entirely on him. If I could give that driver a piece of my mind…” Her brain played a pleasing series of images, starting with the scathing tirade of words she would unleash at the unsuspecting, self-entitled, pompous _pig_ of a driver, passing through the mess of tears and apologies she would reduce him to, and ending with the terrified man promising her endless riches and rewards if she would forgive him. Then she threw in a couple of slaps, just for good measure.

She was so shaken by this incident that she forgot all about her previous nervousness, and only remembered it when she had parked and turned off the engine.

_Oh, crap._

“Are you okay?” asked Tikki, watching her.

“I honestly think I’d rather have a thousand cars pull out in front of me than see Adrien Agreste for the first time in five years,” confessed Marinette.

“It will be fine! Won’t it be nice to have you all together again?”

“Yeah… I guess. It just feels so strange. He was such a big part of my life when I was at school, but I haven’t seen him or spoken to him for so long! What if he’s forgotten me? What if he _remembers_ me?”

“Which one do you want?” Tikki queried, puzzled.

“I don’t know!” Marinette wailed, clutching her hair and completely ruining her hairstyle in the process.

“Well, sitting here and talking about it won’t help anything,” the kwami pointed out.

“You’d better hide, then.” Marinette opened the car door, trying to convince herself that it really was just going to be fine – a casual hang-out with the gang.

The gang and famous millionaire supermodel, Adrien Agreste.

Yeah, this was going to be a disaster.

 

* * *

 

The café Alya had chosen for their reunion was one of Marinette’s favourites – it was the only one in Paris that sold pastries that even came close to rivalling those of the Dupain-Cheng bakery – but she couldn’t even summon up a flicker of excitement at the pretty macarons in a rainbow of pastel shades in the window. She felt sick to her stomach.

Clutching her bag to her for some kind of reassurance, she scanned the busy tables, looking for Alya. After a few seconds of agonising tension she spotted her, sitting in one of the quieter corners and waving to get Marinette’s attention. Next to her was her fiancé, Nino, and – Marinette’s heart gave a second great thump that rivalled the earlier one – a tall, blonde figure. Somehow, she wove through the tables and chairs, unsure as to how her feet were actually working when they felt like blocks of lead.

“Hey, girl, you finally made it!” Alya jumped to her feet to greet her best friend, a mixture of accusation and relief in her voice.

“Sorry I was late,” muttered Marinette to the ground, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. Especially not Adrien’s.

“It’s cool – you weren’t the only one.” Alya pulled out a chair beside her for Marinette, then paused and looked closer at her friend. “Woah, are you okay? You look a bit pale.”

Marinette took refuge in righteous anger. She knew Alya would sympathise with her road rage. More confidently, she said: “It was the drive – some _dick_ in a white BMW pulled out in front of me. I could have murdered him.”

Instead of the horrified exclamations of commiseration she had expected, she was greeted by an awkward silence. Looking from Alya, who seemed to be suppressing laughter, to Nino, whose lips were twitching at the corners, she began to panic. “What? What’s so funny?”

Nino jerked his head towards Adrien, and Marinette finally looked at him. This time she was pretty sure her heart actually stopped. The photos that were widely circulated by the media and Adrien’s hordes of adoring fans (not that she ever actively _looked_ for photos – no, she just _happened_ to see them) and the billboards across the entirety of France (and probably a host of other countries) had not done him justice. Adrien, who had been good-looking at fourteen, was at twenty-four terrifyingly gorgeous. His jawline and cheekbones had hardened, giving him a chiselled look that sat very well with those famous green eyes and the trademark blonde locks. They were shorter than he’d worn them in school, making him look much older and more mature. He was also considerably taller – Marinette thought dazedly that he must have a good foot or so on her height. She had never seen anyone who she would actually have described as beautiful, and meant it. She caught herself wondering what it would be like to kiss him – an old daydream left over from the days of her crush on him that had abruptly acquired all sorts of adult upgrades.

She suddenly realised, to her utmost horror, that Adrien had said something to her.

“Er, what?” she squeaked, her cheeks flooding crimson.

“Where did the car pull out?”

She told him, confused. Alya let out a snort, and Marinette turned to her, still bemused. “ _What_?”

Adrien, his mouth pulling up at one side, pointed a thumb at himself. “Dick in a white BMW,” he said. “Nice to see you again, Marinette.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is just turning into a mess of chick-lit clichés and I'm not even sorry.

Marinette's world slowed to a halt.

She knew, somewhere in a vague part of herself that felt very far away, that she was just standing there, like an idiot, face crimsoned right up to her hair, mouth open like a fish, gaping at Adrien.

The rest of her was too busy coming to terms with what had just happened.

_Mon Dieu… I just called Adrien Agreste a dick._

She couldn't believe it had happened. In all the worst-case scenarios she had pictured, she had at most tripped over Adrien, dropped something on him, or simply been too shy to say anything. To have outright insulted him was so unlikely she hadn't even considered it.

_What do I do???_

At this point, the realisation that she was still gaping at him sank in, and her mouth started to work again.

"I – I – I—"

Well, that was a good start. Adrien was actually smirking at her now. Could this be any worse?

"I didn't mean—" Marinette began again, only to stop in confusion because she had no idea what to say. Fortunately, Adrien himself stepped in.

"No worries, Marinette, I was just a bit late and cut a couple of corners. No hard feelings, _d'accord_?"

He gave her a dazzling smile.

Flustered, Marinette did her best to sound in control of the situation. "Oh yes," she babbled. "I mean, no. Not at all, no, no, I didn't mean to – ah – have you guys ordered yet?" _What a smooth change of topic_ , said a small sarcastic voice in her head. _I'm sure no one noticed that at all._

Adrien shook his head, still appearing amused. "We were waiting for you. What would you like?"

Still on her feet and holding tightly to the straps of her bag, Marinette faltered. _What would I like? How about to rewind this entire morning and do it again so that you could be looking at me with admiration instead of laughter?_

"Um, I'll have a _café au lait_ and… uh…" She wanted nothing more than something filled with mountains of whipped cream or _crème pâtissière_ , something that would soothe her wounded pride and satisfy her sweet tooth, but she could just picture how Adrien would look at her if she ended up with cream all over her face and/or clothes. "Just a croissant, please." Then, in spite of herself, she added quickly: "With white chocolate in."

Adrien got up, dwarfing Marinette. "I'll go and order for everyone," he said easily. "Nino, it was a madeleine, yes?"

" _Oui_ ," said Nino, as Marinette dropped into the empty chair next to Alya. As soon as Adrien was out of earshot, she moaned and dropped her head into her hands.

" _Why_?" she wailed. "Why do these things happen to me?"

Alya patted her on the back. "Oh, Mari. It's okay. He doesn't care."

Marinette looked up to reveal a flushed, anxious face. "Do you think so? Maybe he'll just forget."

"Ha!" said Nino, unthinkingly. "I doubt it – _ow_." He gave his fiancée a hurt look. She ignored him, still trying to reassure her best friend.

"Don't worry. When he gets back, we'll change the subject, okay? He only got here a few minutes ago, so we haven't even started catching up."

"Okay," Marinette sighed, finally resigning herself to the fact that it had happened and it was impossible to take it back. "I think I'll just listen for a bit… I can't be held responsible for what comes out of my mouth, apparently."

Alya laughed, but before she could disagree, Adrien was back. He sat down opposite Marinette, lounging on his chair with easy grace. She fought down the flush she could feel mounting her cheeks and did her best to look like she had coffee with a supermodel every day.

"Ahh, it's good to be back," said the supermodel in question. "It's funny – I haven't really missed France in all these years, but now…" He looked at the awkward expressions round the table and added hastily, "I missed you, of course! I've just been so busy. And my memories of France have been… well…"

A momentary shadow fell over the four of them. They all knew what he meant. Everyone knew, due to the relentless publicity it had generated, what had happened five years ago between Gabriel Agreste and his son. After a year of tension when Adrien had turned eighteen and officially come of age, what Gabriel had referred to as 'differences of creative opinion' and Adrien called 'my father seeing me as his personal property' had resulted in an explosive row that ended with Adrien packing his bags and walking out the door. He had said goodbye to his friends, got on a plane, and left, leaving no one any the wiser as to what he planned to do.

Gabriel, when pressed for further information in multiple interviews, said stiffly that he was sure Adrien would come back when his 'youthful and inexperienced tantrum' had 'cooled off'. In response, Adrien gave one single interview that the more trashy papers called an 'exposé'. Nino, Alya and Marinette, as well as most of Paris, had been profoundly shocked by it. Adrien's calm, unsensational account of his teenage years was all the more chilling for how simply it was told. He spoke of years of being trapped in a house that never felt like a home, of being forbidden contact with children his age, even of not being allowed to go to school. That had changed, eventually, but the situation had not really improved. Adrien had been Gabriel's prized possession; everything in his life was ordered around his purpose: to model Gabriel's fashion lines. He had been on a strict diet and a carefully monitored timetable, watched most of the time, expected to constantly adhere to a complicated set of rules and guidelines. He had had no choice over any aspects of his career, instead simply being informed of what he was to do and when. The relationship between father and son had been more like that between employer and employee, though fraught with tension, hurt and resentment.

The results of this story were predictable. Some people called it a cry for attention, presuming it was made up or exaggerated; others were appalled at what they considered amounted to child abuse, and Gabriel Agreste's reputation suffered accordingly. Either way, it had been a most uncomfortable time for Adrien's friends, who all blamed themselves for not realising how bad his home life had been. Marinette, especially, had been devastated by her own blindness. How could she not have seen, whether as herself or as Ladybug, how lonely and lost Adrien had been? His departure had been hard for her and it was harder still to lose the remaining link she had to him, for contact between Adrien and all his old schoolmates (with the sole exception of Nino, though they did not talk as often as Nino would have liked) dwindled and disappeared within a few short months. Heartbroken, Marinette had set herself the difficult task of getting over a relationship that had never even begun, and was never entirely sure whether she succeeded.

For a while the media buzzed incessantly about the scandal; then the next celebrity gossip started and just like that, Adrien Agreste was almost forgotten. Things were quiet for a year or two. Marinette, Nino and Alya went to university and started jobs and adult life.

Then the stories started appearing. At first it was just a paragraph or two, in a write-up of some fashion show or a critique of some new designers. Interest built quickly, though, and soon Adrien Agreste began to become an increasingly popular topic. The newspapers followed what they called a meteoric rise to fame as Adrien began to make waves in the fashion world. Before long, everyone knew how he had started his own company and was making thousands, if not millions, by the age of only twenty-three; once more his face began to be seen in countless campaigns, but this time under his own company's name, not Gabriel's. Marinette, who had done her best to avoid news of him where she could simply because of how much it hurt to hear his name, knew in spite of herself that he was in London, New York, Los Angeles, Rome, Barcelona, Milan, Madrid, Tokyo… never in France.

Then, on the anniversary of their first date, Nino had proposed to Alya, who had accepted before he had even managed to get most of the words out of his mouth. When they had shared it publicly (or rather: when Alya had updated her Facebook relationship status to 'engaged' about 0.4 seconds after Nino slipped the ring onto her finger), Adrien had messaged Nino with heartfelt congratulations. To everybody's astonishment, he added that he was coming to Paris next month. Would Nino and some of the others like to meet him for coffee?

And now here he was, in the flesh, the young man Vogue had recently called 'Paris's own success story', with his sad past and long absence hanging heavy in the air between them all.

Marinette, hating the awkward silence, squeaked out with relief: "Oh, look, our drinks are here!"

In the brief flurry of each drink and pastry being distributed, the awkwardness died away and everyone began to feel slightly more comfortable. Adrien asked Nino about his DJing and they talked about that for a while, discussing his not insignificant successes and his plans for the future. Marinette settled into her chair, happy to listen to the conversation and only make one or two contributions when the topic changed to Alya's current work as a journalist. She ate her delicious croissant and, quite suddenly, wondered why she didn't feel as happy to see Adrien as she might once have expected to.

Just then, Nino asked him about his travels and Adrien, after a brief pretence of not wanting to show off, launched into an enthusiastic description of all the wonderful places he had been and the incredible people he had met. Marinette watched him as he talked, her mind whirling. Why did he seem so different to the Adrien who had once sat in front of her at _collège_? She realised that her whole body had been thrumming with tension since she had arrived. She had put it down to being nervous around Adrien, but now she wasn't so sure.

 _Maybe it's just because he's grown up now._ But it seemed something more than a simply physical change. Something about the way he held himself, self-certain, even a touch arrogant. Something about the expensive designer clothes he wore that were somehow too obviously expensive and designer. Something about the way he was talking now, dismissing five-star hotels as 'tacky' and telling a long and involved story about how he had had to _demand_ a new room because they hadn't listened to his request to be able to see the Coliseum. Marinette frowned. It all seemed so… _constructed_. As though Adrien was deliberately trying to play a part, projecting an image for all to see. Even his very enthusiasm seemed manufactured somehow; there was no heart to it, no real feeling – she got the impression he was simply playing a part because that was what he thought they would want to see. He reminded her of someone… Who was it? Someone else who cared so much about people's opinions that everything about their image was carefully crafted to invite attention and admiration…

It hit her all at once. Adrien reminded her of Chloé Bourgeois!

Horrified at her own thoughts, Marinette gave a quiet gasp. Everyone looked at her, Adrien pausing his story. Blushing again, she picked up her coffee and drank deeply, looking innocently at them over the rim of the cup. The conversation resumed, though Alya was giving her an odd look that she staunchly ignored.

How could she compare Adrien to _Chloé_? The very idea was ridiculous. Chloé was a narcissistic, rude, self-centred, shallow socialite who still delighted in either snubbing or completely ignoring Marinette whenever she happened to see her, depending on what mood she was in. Adrien was polite, gentle, and kind. Perhaps she was just still annoyed by the BMW episode. After all, he had only wanted to be on time to see his friends. That wasn't a crime, was it?

 _Driving dangerously is a crime,_ she thought, in spite of herself. And then, as it dawned on her: _He didn't even apologise to me!!_

She imagined how she would react if a complete stranger had pulled that stunt and then refused to apologise or acknowledge they were in the wrong. She'd be _furious_. But she had just stammered to Adrien, practically apologising herself for calling him a dick! And he had laughed!

At this precise moment, just as her anger was reaching its full height, she heard her name. Snapping out of her trance, simmering with suppressed rage, Marinette looked up from her coffee. Adrien was leaning towards her across the table, his green eyes fixed on her and sparkling with interest.

"And what about you, Marinette? What do you do?"

Curtly, biting back the angry words she wanted to say, Marinette said: "I work as a tailor."

Her rude tone seemed to take everyone by surprise, but Adrien didn't look offended; he raised an eyebrow, almost as if she was challenging him. He was still staring at her, and for some reason it made her uncomfortable. She realised that he had never looked at her so directly in the entire time she had known him. Half resentfully, she thought: _He's finding out I'm more than what he expected._

The group seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate on her statement, but when she didn't, Alya jumped in. She often came to Marinette's defence, still the fiery, outspoken one to her best friend's quieter nature – she had frequently said that she felt Marinette needed protecting. Marinette both thought this was hilarious, given that she was Ladybug, and appreciated it because actually, sometimes she did.

"Anyway, Adrien, we actually had something to ask you."

"We?" echoed Adrien, his eyes still on Marinette. His head was tipped sideways slightly, like a cat, trying to figure something out.

"Well, Nino," Alya amended. Marinette glanced at her in time to see her shooting a _go on, tell him_ look at her fiancé.

Nino cleared his throat. He looked embarrassed, an unusual expression that didn't sit well on his open, likeable features.

"Yes. Um, well, I… I have a question for you. Or a request. Um…"

Finally distracted from whatever was so fascinating about Marinette, Adrien looked over at Nino, who was staring straight down at the table.

"I know we haven't seen each other in years," he mumbled, "and a lot of things have changed, but the truth is… you were my best friend for a really long time, and I still think of you that way, even if you don't, and—"

"Spit it out, babe," said Alya encouragingly. Nino gave her a quick, grateful look, and continued.

"—Adrien, will you be my best man?"

There was a stunned silence. Marinette watched Adrien as the meaning of Nino's words sank in. His face had suddenly lost that carefully cultivated look of lazy arrogance, the green eyes growing rounder in his surprise. It made him look much younger and more innocent, once more the boy she had known in school.

"Seriously? Do you really want _me_?" There was a crack in Adrien's voice that, in spite of everything, tugged at Marinette's heartstrings – it was the tone of someone very lonely who has just discovered that someone else cares about them. _That's the first sign of real emotion he's shown all day_ , she thought.

"Yeah, dude!" Nino was more confident now that he wasn't about to be rejected. "You're the closest thing to a brother I've ever had. Of course I want you to be my best man."

Adrien visibly struggled to maintain his composure. "But I've… I've been such a shit friend. You don't deserve someone like me."

"Oh, shut up, man. Are you going to or not?"

"Well – yeah, of course I am, you idiot!"

The two boys got up, chairs scraping loudly across the floor, and hugged, thumping each other's backs in what was evidently supposed to be a manly way. Alya and Marinette exchanged grins.

"Cute," murmured Marinette.

"Saps," scoffed Alya, watching Nino affectionately. Then she turned to Marinette with a wicked grin that would have struck fear into the heart of anyone who knew Alya even remotely. "I hope you two have fun planning everything."

"Huh?"

Then the realisation occurred to her.

Adrien was the best man.

She was the maid of honour.

_Merde._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. If only Marinette getting pissed off by one tiny thing and then holding a grudge for way too long was canon..... 
> 
> ....OH WAIT.

“Mari, what’s going on with you?” hissed Alya as soon as the door of the bathroom swung closed behind them.

Marinette, hoping she could avoid the worst of the cross-examining, headed straight to the sinks and poked critically at her hair.

“Hmm?” she said vaguely, wondering what the chances were that Adrien, model _extraordinaire_ , hadn’t noticed that a lock of her hair was sticking out at nearly a ninety degree angle.

“ _Marinette_.” Alya delivered this directly into her ear with such venom that Marinette jumped and knocked over the soap.

“What?”

“You’re being _weird_.”

“Did you actually need to pee or did you just drag me in here to interrogate me?” Marinette hedged.

Alya ignored the clearly rhetorical question.

“Giggling and blushing I expected to see – a certain amount of reverting back to your teenage years would be normal, given your history with Monsieur Agreste and how long it’s been since you last saw him. But this…”

Marinette narrowed her eyes at her best friend and briefly considered dashing into a cubicle to escape her. Knowing Alya, she would have no compunction with beating the door down if it came between her and a source of information.

“… _This_ is just bizarre.”

“What’s just bizarre?” Perhaps she could get away with it if she pretended she didn’t know what Alya was talking about.

The taller girl arched an eyebrow that said _oh, we’re going to play it this way, are we?_ and began to list things off on her fingers. “You’re not joining in the conversation. When Adrien asked you a question you were outright _rude_ to him. You’re now refusing to make eye contact with him _or_ us and you’ve been clenching your fists so tightly I’m pretty sure you’ll have the marks forever. Plus, even though you’ve pretty much been bright red since he got here, which I don’t really blame you for because _damn_ that boy is hot, you haven’t responded once to any of his signals.”

This got Marinette’s attention. “Signals? What signals? What are you talking about?”

Alya gave her a suspicious look. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“Noticed _what?_ ”

“That Adrien is clearly into you!”

“He _WHAT?!_ ” Marinette squeaked. Her entire face flamed crimson – a look that, now she could see it in the mirror, she was unsurprised to find looked most unattractive. “No he isn’t!”

“Mari, you idiot, he’s been staring at you ever since you got here!”

“Yeah, probably judging my terrible hairstyle…” Marinette tugged agitatedly at the offending lock of hair.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I just don’t understand what’s happening here. Five years ago you would have died and gone to heaven if Adrien Agreste so much as winked at you, and now he’s making eyes at you over the coffee table and you—”

“He is _not_ making eyes—”

“—You’re acting like he’s not even there!”

“Don’t you think he’s the one acting weird?” blurted out Marinette. Alya stared at her.

“What do you mean?”

Unsure as to how she could express herself properly, Marinette sighed exasperatedly and leaned against the sinks.

“I don’t know. He’s just… _different_. He doesn’t seem like the Adrien I used to know. He’s all loud and it feels like he’s kind of showing off to us and… he drives really recklessly…”

Alya raised her hands helplessly. “Urgh, Mari, you are a nightmare! I swear, if you mess things up this time round, I will kill both of you. Things might not have happened between you in _collège_ and _lycèe_ … no matter how much I bet Nino they would… but this time I am not letting you let any opportunities slip through your fingers. Now you go out there and you flirt with Adrien Agreste! That’s an order!”

Stubbornly, still blushing, Marinette shook her head. “It just feels wrong. And no matter what you say, I don’t think he’s interested in me, either. I think we’ve just grown apart. Face it, Alya: me and Adrien are not happening.” And before Alya could explode, she marched out of the toilets and back to the table where the boys were waiting.

They were clearly still talking about wedding stuff; Nino was listing off some potential venues, none of which were the potential venues Alya had mentioned to Marinette on the phone the night of the engagement. Marinette foresaw trouble, but decided it wasn’t worth bringing up yet. They’d figure it out.

“This is all so exciting,” said Adrien as she sat down and poked at the croissant crumbs on her plate. Alya joined them a second later, giving Marinette a pointed glare. “What about a date? I probably should have asked that first, come to think of it. Have you decided when it will be?”

Nino and Alya glanced at one another, and Marinette got the impression that they were both nervous about something.

“Um… yeah, that’s the catch, I guess.” Nino shifted uncomfortably. “Unfortunately, we can’t afford to get married for quite a while yet. Our parents are helping out, but we want to pay for as much as we can, and so… it’s looking like next summer. Maybe a year, maybe more.”

Adrien frowned. “What’s the catch, then?”

“We weren’t sure if you’d be around then,” explained Alya. “Of course we know it’s hard to commit to something so far away, and we don’t want you to feel obligated to be best man if you can’t make the wedding.”

“Oh.” For just a fraction of a second, Marinette thought she glimpsed a mixture of hurt and guilt on Adrien’s expressive face. Then it vanished, replaced by a carefully schooled look of unconcern. Somehow this frustrated her more. Why did he feel the need to hide his emotions? He had never done that before with them. “I see. I’m sorry to cause you anxiety.”

“No, no, we understand that your schedule is far busier than ours,” Alya said quickly. “So… how long are you planning to stay?”

“Well,” drawled Adrien, leaning back in his chair and letting his eyes fall back on Marinette, who flushed in spite of herself, “I suppose that depends on what reasons I have to stay.”

Alya kicked Marinette, hard, on the ankle. Marinette jumped slightly but did her best to ignore the thoughts she could practically feel burning a hole in her head. _SEE? What did I tell you?!_

“And, given that I’ve found plenty today… I think I’ll be staying for quite a while. So count me in,” finished Adrien. He didn’t look away, even when Marinette refused to smile back at him. In fact, he _raised an eyebrow at her_ _again_. How dare he act like this? Did he really think he could just turn on the charm and she’d forget all about his rudeness with the car? If so, he was going to be surprised. She deliberately turned her attention to Nino, who was grinning like an idiot.

“That’s great, dude!” he enthused.

“Yeah, that’s really good!” agreed Alya. Then, with another wicked grin, she added: “I’m sure you and Marinette are going to love spending time together, helping us plan it all.”

Marinette was going to kill her.

“I’m sure we will,” agreed Adrien. “I’d love to be as involved as possible. Make up for lost time.” Even though she was refusing to look at him, Marinette could still _feel_ the dazzling smile he was directing at her.

She was going to kill them _both._

 

* * *

 

When she reached her flat, thankfully not having encountered any rude, drop-dead gorgeous BMW drivers on the way, Marinette stumbled into her bedroom in her heels and dropped onto her bed with a groan. She lay there, face buried in the soft duvet, arms flopping out to the side, and decided that she might actually stay there forever.

“Did you have a nice time?” asked Tikki cautiously. Marinette only groaned louder in response. Tikki flew to her shoulder and patted the back of her neck – whether it was in sympathy or encouragement to move, she couldn’t tell.

“Why do these things happen to me?” she moaned, rolling over and staring up at the ceiling. “Why did it have to be Adrien in that car? Why did he have to stare at me so much? Why is he so damn pretty?”

“Maybe you’re reading too much into things?” suggested Tikki. “Everyone has moments where they don’t drive perfectly. Don’t you remember that roundabout the other day—”

“Okay, point taken,” said Marinette hastily. “But still, if someone asked me about that I’d apologise _profusely_. I wouldn’t just act like it was no big deal and expect them to laugh about it.” She sighed. “I just can’t shake the feeling that Adrien isn’t who he used to be. I miss the old him.”

“People do change,” Tikki pointed out. “You’re not the same as you were five years ago either.”

“Mmm.” Tikki sort of had a point, but Marinette was too stubborn to admit that. The kwami, knowing this as well as if she could read the girl’s mind, flew into the kitchen to snack on the stash of home-made cookies that Marinette kept well stocked for her, leaving Marinette to chew on the idea.

Her first action was to stretch across the bed to the iPod and speakers that she kept to hand and press play. Jagged Stone’s latest single, one of her new favourites, blasted into the room and Marinette closed her eyes in bliss. She had had noise complaints from her neighbours before because of how loud she liked to play music – it helped her think when she was sewing or designing – but she maintained that Jagged sounded best at maximum volume.

 _People change…_ she thought. _I guess they do. But that doesn’t mean it’s_ good _change. I liked Adrien just the way he was._

She thought fondly of the days when they had been eighteen – when exams had been their biggest concern; that, and the universities they had applied to. Once the academic year was over, she, Adrien, Alya and Nino had taken to hanging out together at the park during the hot summer days, eating prodigious quantities of icecream and lazily arguing over whose turn it was to go and buy the next round. Even though nothing had happened between Marinette and Adrien, those days had been the happiest of her life. She had finally got past her crippling stutter and tendency to blush whenever he opened his mouth, and begun to forge an actual friendship with him. He had been quiet, kind, often surprisingly mature in his insights, and when the four of them were together, he had shown a goofy side to his character that Marinette hadn’t imagined existed. It always made her laugh.

One of the things she had liked about him was how different he was to most of the other boys she knew. Though she was good friends with a lot of her male class members, most of whom were pretty nice boys themselves, she couldn’t avoid encountering the kind of sex-obsessed, image-orientated, materialistic teenage douchebags that every generation tends to sprout here and there. She’d had the odd run-in with guys like this – someone at a club had forced a kiss on her and tried to persuade her to hook up with him in the toilets, only to walk away in disgust, calling her an ‘ugly tease’, when she had informed him she wasn’t that kind of girl, and then there was that absolute _dick_ of a boy Alya had briefly dated when she and Nino had had their one, temporary break-up in _terminale_. He had clearly been with her solely to get into her pants and had omitted to mention that he was seeing three other girls on the side.

But Adrien wasn’t like that. He could have been – with a career as a model and looks that had every female within a thirty mile radius swooning over him, not to mention the seemingly endless pocket money with which his father endowed him in lieu of actual affection, he could have been spoilt, vain and affected. Instead, he was a genuinely nice person who actually cared about his friends. Marinette hated to think that this side of him was lost now, maybe for good. But was she just reading far too much into some admittedly brief interactions?

She sat up and reached for her phone.

Adrien’s Facebook didn’t reveal much. He was clearly one of those people that had it just to use Messenger, and had Timeline Review turned on – he hadn’t been tagged in any photos since about four years ago, and his last status was a complaint about how hard the English exam had been. _Boring_ , thought Marinette irritably, and then laughed, thinking of how Alya always complained when people didn’t do anything worth stalking on social media.

His Instagram, on the other hand…

It had been years since she’d last looked at his account. Back in school she’d kept track – obsessively, one might say – of every new photo he’d been put up. In fact, if she scrolled back far enough, she might even find photos of her along with Alya and Nino. But when he’d left, the reminder had been far too painful, so most of this was new to her.

First off, he had the little blue tick by his name that meant he was a verified celebrity, or whatever. For some reason, this really threw Marinette. Of course she knew that Adrien was famous. Everyone knew that. But to actually have confirmation of it, that she had grown up with and indeed just had coffee with someone considered a celebrity, was somehow… strange. She shook her head and continued with her stalker mission.

He had _80.5k followers_. Good grief. How was that even possible? His current profile picture was a black-and-white shot she thought she recognised from a campaign a couple of years ago, where he was staring moodily out a window, a baseball cap tilted forward over his forehead and his hand tucked under his chin. It highlighted the absolute perfection of his jawline and cheekbones, along with how long his eyelashes were. Marinette’s heart thumped unevenly. _Stop it,_ she thought fiercely.

His bio simply said: _You know who I am_.

“Twat,” she muttered.

She scrolled through some of his recent posts, and her heart fluttered, this time for a different reason. A cold dread that she couldn’t push away spread slowly through her chest. _Aaand… there it is._

Parties. Alcohol. Swimming pools and hotel rooms. And girls.

 _Lots_ of girls. Skinny, tanned, long-haired, bikini-clad model girls. Pretty, artistic girls with immaculate makeup and cool, intricate hairstyles. Girls wearing skimpy dresses on a night out, posing beside Adrien at some exclusive club, and girls kissing him on the cheek, being given piggybacks by him, laughing round a table with him.

Of course, the photos were interspersed with both model shots and selfies, from which Marinette gathered that Adrien had apparently finally figured out that he was pretty. These bothered her less than the others. Everyone put selfies on Instagram, even if not everyone put pretentious captions like Adrien’s most recent ‘ _Tu dimmi se ormai qualcosa di noi c’è ancora dentro agli occhi tuoi_ ’, written under a close-up of his eyes in glorious colour. (Did he really have those little flecks of blue at the centre of his irises? How had she never noticed that before? _Focus, dammit!_ ) But all the girls, all the expensive possessions, the seemingly endless party lifestyle – it just confirmed all her impressions. Adrien had sold out. He was – well, a dick in a white BMW.

Marinette sighed and dropped her phone, trying to pretend that sickening disappointment wasn’t punching her in the gut.

It looked like it was about time she moved on from Adrien Agreste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was just being a good author and doing my research meticulously and the next thing I know, my husband is looking over my shoulder and demanding to know why I'm looking at the Instagram account of some Australian male model. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Also, Adrien's pretentious Italian quote is from a Laura Pausini song and roughly translates to 'Tell me if there's anything left of us by now in those eyes of yours'. (I dunno, it's more romantic in the original language. Basically, 'tell me if there's any hope for us left'.) I have this headcanon that Adrien speaks flawless Italian and can be very pompous about this fact. 
> 
> Next up: an old friend returns.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're back.

Marinette had intended to put a proper plan into action, or at least to give the whole Adrien situation some more thought, but the next couple of weeks had a sudden influx of work and she found her days flying by as she desperately tried to cram in cooking and cleaning alongside the projects she was forced to take home to work on. Her boss, Claude, was a stern taskmaster, and he had high expectations of her. Marinette started to feel that she was busy every hour of the day and yet still wasn’t able to do everything she wanted to. Quite suddenly, it was Friday night and she hadn’t had time for anything more than a quick phonecall to Alya for two weeks.

Finally putting down the jacket she was sewing a pocket back into, deciding that it was about time she took a break, she stretched and rolled her shoulders, feeling the ache that long hours of bending over her needlework always produced in her back. The worst of the rush was over – for now at least – and she could surface back into the world once more. She considered texting Alya and suggesting that they go out for a drink. It would be nice, but she felt that it might be a bit of a sudden reintegration into society – especially with Alya’s habit of getting louder and more enthusiastic whenever she drank alcohol. As much as she adored her best friend, occasionally she could be a lot to handle.

Marinette just needed some time to herself; a few moments to appreciate the peace of not being so stressed she could feel her own heartbeat. She smiled suddenly, her pulse racing with excitement as inspiration struck. Some fresh air might do the trick…

“Tikki!” she called, tidying away her sewing kit and leaning forwards to open the double doors that led onto her balconette. A tantalisingly refreshing night breeze rushed in, soothing against Marinette’s warm forehead and cheeks.

The kwami appeared from the drawer where she liked to curl up when she wasn’t on Marinette’s shoulder. She only needed to look at Marinette’s face to know what she had planned. Her eyes sparkled.

“It’s a perfect night!” she said.

“I know, and it’s been weeks and weeks since I was out last. Tikki, _transforme moi!_ ”

 

* * *

 

The night was cool and fragrant after a day of hot sun. Paris, one of those cities that does not sleep until well into the wee hours, if at all, was studded with lights, giving it the appearance of a strange, star-filled sky.

And Ladybug, who loved her city more than perhaps anything else in the world, flitted through the shadows and across its rooftops, revelling in the exhilaration of freedom.

For a while, as was her habit, she followed the old patrol routes, though without any real attempt at actually patrolling. This outing was more for the sake of exercise than anything else – a chance for her to breathe the sweet-smelling air and stretch her cramped limbs. At last, feeling a tiredness that was more a pleasurable relaxation than actual fatigue, Ladybug swung up to where she inevitably ended her excursions: the _tour d’Eiffel._ Here, she leaned against the familiar wrought iron and sighed happily, looking out over the beauty of Paris.

It was a long time ago now that Ladybug and Chat Noir had defeated Papillon and made a mutual decision to step down from their heroic positions. They had been just nineteen; five years of akuma battles, five years of hasty excuses and absences, five years of being constantly tired, five years of partnership. It had broken Ladybug’s heart to let it end, but she couldn’t deny that it was a huge relief at the same time. They had served their city well. Now they had lives to lead.

Almost to their surprise, the kwamis and Master Fu had agreed with their decision. Ladybug had been half afraid that she would be asked to give up her miraculous – the idea of parting with Tikki was unbearable – but as it turned out, she didn’t have to. One day, perhaps, Ladybug and Chat Noir would be needed again. For now they could do as they liked.

For a few months they had half-heartedly kept up their patrols, more out of a desire to spend time together than to watch over Paris. That time had been happy too, though bittersweet – Ladybug thought of it now with a sigh, her heart aching with mingled pain and affection as it always did whenever she remembered. Chat had finally found the courage to confess his love to her, taking her completely by surprise. Though she had known he cared for her, she had never realised how deep his feelings ran, disguised as they were by flirtatiousness and his endless supply of jokes. Confusedly, miserably, through a storm of tears, Ladybug had tried to explain that she felt only a sisterly love for him – he was her partner, her best friend, her _chaton_ , but nothing more than that.

The look on his face had been the worst thing she had ever had to see. Even now she couldn’t think of it without tears springing to her eyes. She had not been surprised when, a few weeks later, he had come to her to say that he was leaving and did not know when he would be back… if at all.

She missed him fiercely, still. His absence was a constant ache whenever she transformed, though fortunately this was rarely, these days. Whenever she thought of him, which was often, she hoped that he was happy, wherever he was. He deserved happiness.

Realising how melancholy the direction of her thoughts was, Ladybug started and shook her head. It wasn’t like her to brood over the past, no matter how painful it was. She was better off thinking about the future, especially when so many things seemed to be changing. Alya and Nino were getting married… Adrien was back, and apparently a huge jerk now… the next year was going to be interesting, to say the least. She grinned.

“Penny for your thoughts, Bugaboo,” said a teasing voice from the shadows just behind her that was dreadfully and wonderfully familiar.

Ladybug screamed, lost her balance, and fell.

 

* * *

 

She was just in time, as she fell, to catch a glimpse of a masked figure whose expression changed abruptly from a grin to horror, outstretched hands missing her by a whisker – _haha, whisker, must tell him that one_ – and then the wind was whistling very loudly in her ears, and her stomach had been left behind on the tower, and she was _falling_.

Fighting against the air currents, she twisted, trying to get to her yoyo, but she was sorely out of practice and it had been _years_ since she’d fallen off anything. It vaguely occurred to her that she should probably be more afraid, because there was a pretty good chance she might not survive this, suit or no suit.

And then there was a thud that knocked all the breath out of her, and two strong arms wrapped around her, and _whoosh!_ She was suddenly flying in the opposite direction, back up to the top of the tower. He landed gracefully, tucking the baton that had been her saviour back into his belt, and set her on her feet, and Ladybug looked up into Chat Noir’s face.

 

* * *

 

A thousand different thoughts crowded into the forefront of her mind. She had pictured this meeting more than a few times, wondering whether she would cry, hug him, slap him for staying away for so long, or groan at the inevitable pun he would greet her with. Part of her wanted to do all of these things, possibly at once. The rest of her was too busy being furious at the fact that she had literally just _fallen for him_.

She waited for the joke, the wink, the insinuation, secretly aware that she wouldn’t really mind at all. God, she had _missed_ him.

But instead, Chat simply said: “Are you all right?”

“Huh?” said Ladybug stupidly. Then, scrambling for a little more intelligence: “Um, yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” Something strange appeared to be happening to her where his arm was still braced around her waist – a sort of fluttery feeling of warmth that spread from the contact and went right through her.

Chat looked… _different_. He was so tall she had to almost crane her neck to look at him, and his shoulders had broadened, his frame filling out. She had seen him grow from a skinny boy to a long-limbed teenager with a slender, lithe figure, but now he was undoubtedly, well… grown-up. She remembered with certainty that his suit had never been moulded or padded but simply skin-tight, which meant that those rippling muscles clearly visible on his abdomen were –

She gulped, and stepped away. “F-fancy seeing you here,” she said, with a nervous laugh that sounded ridiculous to her own ears.

Chat Noir grinned, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a way that was so familiar it made her heart jump for a second.

“I had a hunch I’d find you here,” he said. Then he laughed. “That’s a total lie – I’ve been checking my baton for a few nights now to see whether you were still around. I thought it’d be nice to catch up.”

“Oh.” _So eloquent. What the hell is wrong with me?_ “I – I can’t believe you’re back! I mean – are you back? Or just visiting?” She cringed, hoping she hadn’t sounded too demanding.

Chat didn’t answer for a second; he turned to look at the view she’d been admiring and took a deep breath. It gave Ladybug the fleeting impression that he was a prisoner who had just walked free for the first time, and she wondered what he had been doing all these years.

“Paris…” he said. “I almost forgot how amazing it is. It’s good to be back.” He looked back at her. “I don’t really know yet. But I might be around for a while.”

“That’s great!” Her enthusiasm fell slightly flat, discordant against the memory of their awkward goodbye. She searched desperately for a way back to their old banter, and spoke half laughingly, half in genuine frustration. “When did you get so damn tall?”

“I think you’ll find, milady, that you are the one who has become adorably tiny.” Chat pretended to measure her height with a hand and then held it against himself. “What do you come up to now? My chest? My bellybutton, perhaps?”

Suddenly Ladybug felt more at ease. “Excuse me!” She thwacked him lightly in the arm. “I’ll have you know I am a full two inches taller than my mother.”

Chat snorted. “Then your mother must be—”

“Watch it, alley cat, or you’ll feel my wrath.” Ladybug threatened him with her yo-yo and Chat made a show of cringing away in fear.

“No, not the yo-yo! I surrender to the great and powerful Ladybug! I am but a humble stray—”

They both laughed, and suddenly it was as if the last five years had never happened: Chat had never left, Ladybug had never broken his heart, and they were just a couple of teenagers messing around and trying to save the city.

“You look good, Buginette,” said Chat, giving her a light punch on the shoulder. “I missed you.”

The words slipped out of him so easily, so casually. Ladybug caught her breath. Something about the way he spoke was oddly hurtful. There wasn’t that old flirtatious edge to his voice, nor the look in his eyes that she had come to realise (some time in the last couple of years) was adoration. He said it as one might say it to a little sister.

 _Am I really that shallow?_ she thought, angry with herself. _Just because he doesn’t worship the ground I walk on, I’m upset? Even though I’m the one who turned him down in the first place?_ She clenched her jaw. She would _not_ mess up a second chance with Chat Noir. She was the one who had shattered their partnership, and now she had the opportunity to prove to him that they could go back to being friends.

Pushing down the unwelcome feelings, she grabbed her yo-yo and turned to Chat.

“Race you to the _Place de la Bastille_ ,” she said impulsively.

Chat gave her a bow. “Very well, milady, but I hope you’re _feline_ hungry.”

Ladybug was so confused she didn’t even bat an eyelid at the pun, which was one of the more appalling ones he’d come out with. “What? Why?”

“Because you’re about to _eat my fur!”_ he crowed, and then he was off, gaining at least a three second head start on her.

“Hey!” she howled, following him. “Not fair!”

“Don’t you mean not _fur_?” he yelled over his shoulder.

“You’re lucky you’ve got nine lives!” she tossed back easily.

The race was exhilarating. She could hear her heartbeat loud in her ears, the wind rushing past her as she swung and caught and swung again in a rhythm as familiar to her as her own breath. It felt _good_ to be doing this again with Chat, to know that she was no longer alone.

For the first time in longer than she would have cared to admit, Ladybug felt whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me six months ago: "I will never write Chat Noir as constantly punning."  
> Me now: "LOL LOOK AT HIM GO"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Alya slightly cracks the fourth wall, because why not.

Ladybug and Chat parted with a promise to catch up again soon, and maybe run a few more races. By the time Marinette got home and detransformed, it was well past midnight. She closed the window with a contented sigh and fed Tikki a cookie before getting ready for bed.

About to brush her teeth, she caught sight of her reflection: flushed cheeks and tousled hair, eyes shining with excitement. She gave herself a toothy grin that would have rivalled one of Chat’s. _He’s back. He’s back._ As she brushed her teeth she planned out the patrols they would do together, just for old times’ sake. Maybe they could actually spend some time together, with no Papillon looming over them and no awkward one-sided romantic feelings between them. Maybe this summer wasn’t going to be so bad.

She got into bed, checking her phone out of habit before turning off the light. She had a Facebook message from Alya informing her that if she didn’t see her for coffee this weekend, Alya would personally come and _drag_ her out of the apartment by her hair. Marinette grinned and sent her a thumbs up, just to annoy her. There was a WhatsApp from her mother, a Twitter notification from the Ladyblog, and a text from an unknown number. Frowning, she opened it.

_Hey Mari! Want to meet up for coffee this weekend? I have some ideas to chat about with you._

Marinette switched off her bedside light and said, “Goodnight, Tikki.” Tikki, from the little shoebox she liked to sleep in, murmured something unintelligible in reply. Marinette got comfy in bed and then held up her phone again, her fingers tapping swiftly against the screen.

_Sorry, I don’t have this number! Who is this?_ She wondered if it was Rose or Alix, both of whom occasionally got in touch to catch up. Either could have got a new number and forgotten to tell her—especially Rose, who could occasionally be a little ditzy.

Her phone chimed. Marinette read the text, and froze. Her heart, who had apparently not received the _we no longer have a crush_ memo, started banging crazily in her chest as if it had forgotten how to beat normally. She stared down at the screen in shock, wondering if she was somehow misreading the words. But no, there they were in black and white.

_Oh, sorry! It’s Adrien Agreste. :)_

* * *

“ _Ahhhh_!” shrieked Alya. “What happened next????”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Calm down, Alya, you’ll give yourself a—”

“I CAN’T CALM DOWN!” yelled her best friend, grasping Marinette by the shoulders and shaking her. “ADRIEN ASKED YOU OUT!!!”

Marinette could _hear_ the extra exclamation marks. She extricated herself from Alya’s overexcited grip and tried to hold her at arm’s length. “Please can you just take it down a notch? You’re drawing attention to us.” She glanced uncomfortably at the people giving the two of them strange sideways glances.

“JUST TELL MEEE!”

“Okay, okay!” Marinette dug in her handbag for her phone, feeling it was the lesser of two evils. She knew she shouldn’t’ve begun this conversation in public. “Here. You can see for yourself.”

Alya’s attention was instantly drawn to the phone, and she whipped it out of Marinette’s grasp. “Oo,” she said, sounding like a child who had been given a lifetime supply of their favourite sweets. “Yesss, lemme see that sweet Adrienette chat.”

“It’s in my texts—wait, what?”

“Where? Oh, I see. Oh my gosh, cuuute, he called himself Adrien Agreste!”

“Did you just make up a _couple name_ for us?! Alya?”

Alya ignored her, scrolling through the messages eagerly. They reached a bench and sat on it, Marinette peering over her shoulder at the phone, half afraid and half curious of Alya’s reaction.

_A: Oh, sorry! It’s Adrien Agreste :)_

_M: Oh. How did you get this number?_

_A: I got it off Nino!_

Alya snorted. “Nice.”

“Yeah,” said Marinette flatly, “remind me to thank your fiancé for that one.”

_M: I see. Um, what do you mean, ideas to chat about?_

_A: It’s important. It’s about Nino and Alya._

_M: What about them?_

“You were so cold to him!” exclaimed Alya. “What’d he do, murder a kitten?”

“It just seemed really weird,” said Marinette stiffly. “We haven’t hung out for ages and ages, and then out of the blue he wants to meet up?”

_A: It’s a secret! :)_

_M: Okay…_

_A: Sunday morning?_

_M: I’m busy, sorry._

_A: What about the afternoon?_

_M: I won’t be free until about 4._

_A: 4 is perfect!_

_M: I do have quite a lot of work though_

_A: I won’t keep you long. Promise. ;)_

Alya squeaked. “He sent you a WINKY FACE.”

“I know,” said Marinette, disapprovingly. _He probably sends them to all the girls he talks to._ She had hated herself for it, but last night she may have spent a few minutes (half an hour) scrolling through Adrien’s Instagram again and reading all the comments from his fans. It hadn’t exactly helped her feelings of animosity towards him.

_M: Well, if it’s that urgent I guess I can spare half an hour or so. Where do you want to meet?_

_A: How about the café from the other day? It was really nice there. And don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while!_

Alya choked. Marinette, rolling her eyes, patted her on the back.

_M: Ok. See you then._

_A: Awesome! :)_ _xxx_

“HE… KISS… ADRIEN… YOU…” said Alya, eloquently.

Marinette waited patiently, and then prompted, “Yes?”

“HE SENT YOU KISSES. HE WANTS TO KISS YOU.”

“That is not what kisses in a text mean!”

“My ship is sailing,” Alya proclaimed dramatically, waving the phone around for emphasis. “My OTP. My—” She gasped. “Oh. My. Gosh. We should have a _double wedding._ ”

Marinette decided this tangent wasn’t going to get them anywhere.

“So… yeah, that was the gist of it. I’m still not sure whether to go. You’ll be my back-up cancel plan, right?”

Alya was too busy re-reading the texts, grinning widely, to answer.

“I feel like it’s going to be super awkward. And I don’t know what he can possibly have to say to me that’s so important. I _know_ I’m going to embarrass myself again and to be honest, I’m not sure I want to waste my Sunday afternoon on a model who thinks he’s the centre of the universe—”

 “MARINETTE, YOU HAVE A DATE WITH ADRIEN AGRESTE,” Alya shouted, seemingly incapable of speaking at a normal volume.

“Please, Alya, use your _indoor_ voice—”

“YOU AND ADRIEN ARE GOING ON A DATE. OHMYGOSH. THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE.”

“It’s _not a date_.”

“IT’S TOTALLY A DATE!”

“No it’s _not_!” squealed Marinette.

Alya gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. “What are you going to wear??”

A wave of panic crashed over both girls. “I don’t know!” Marinette wailed. “Help me!”

“I will. Promise. I’ll come over tomorrow and pick you out something nice.”

“Thank you. You’re the best.”

“I know.” Alya handed back Marinette’s phone. “Okay, my curiosity is satisfied. We can go get ice-cream now.”

“Gee, thanks.”

They were halfway there when Alya suddenly said: “Wait, he wants to talk about me and Nino!”

“Oh yeah.” Marinette had forgotten about that. “I thought that was a bit strange.”

“What do you think it’s about? I swear, Mari, if he bitches about us to you I will _murder_ him, love of your life or not.”

“ _Ma chouchoute_ , you know I would already have killed him for you. No one says anything mean about my favourite people in the whole world and gets away with it.”

They giggled, Alya looping her arm around Marinette’s waist, and descended into an argument over which ice-cream to get—a familiar topic of discussion between them, especially when the weather was as warm as it was becoming now. Marinette maintained that strawberry ice-cream was the best food in the entire world and couldn’t possibly be improved upon, while Alya didn’t understand why she was still friends with someone who didn’t like the chocolate flavour. Once they had got their respective treats, they wandered back through the park towards Marinette’s flat, still bickering amiably.

“I wonder what Adrien’s favourite flavour is,” said Alya, licking a drop of melted ice-cream off the inside of her wrist. “I bet it’s something really boring, like lemon. This is why you two are meant to be.”

“Not this again,” groaned Marinette. “I thought we were done with this.”

“OTP! OTP! Mari and Adrien, sitting in a tree—!”

“I thought Ladybug and Chat Noir were your OTP?” teased Marinette, then immediately wondered why the hell she’d said that.

“Ahh, Ladynoir,” sighed Alya, theatrically. “Yes, you’re right, maybe they’re my OTP. You and Adrien can be my OOTP. Other One True Pairing.”

“Do you have ship names for all the couples you know?” asked Marinette with biting sarcasm.

“Yep.” Alya bit off a huge chunk of her cone with a loud crunch. “Me and Nino are DJWifi.”

“What?” Marinette stopped to stare at her best friend. “Because of your akuma identities? Doesn’t that… I dunno, weird you out?”

“Meh,” she answered with a shrug. “Some people are weird about their akuma name, but I think mine was kinda cool. Yeah, I was a victim of Papillon, but why try to pretend it never happened, ya know? Own it, that’s what I say.”

Marinette grinned. “DJWifi. I can get on board with that. Can I make Adrien put that in the best man’s speech?”

“Sure.”

“Excellent.”

They walked on quietly for a moment, and then Alya suddenly gave a shriek that made Marinette’s blood run cold. It had been years since the last akuma, but her instincts still went into overdrive whenever anything unexpected or concerning happened. She clutched Alya’s arm and swore.

“Don’t do that! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“I just remembered! Did you see my blog post yesterday? There was a _sighting_!”

“Ah, yes, I did see! Super cool, huh?” The Ladyblog was still up and running, but very quiet these days. Thankfully, Alya had slightly grown out of it and now looked back on it fondly but without regret that Ladybug’s heroic career had more or less come to an end. Marinette had been terrified of upsetting her, and hugely relieved when Alya had shown no signs of fury. The Ladyblog had served its purpose—both in giving Alya experience in hosting an extremely popular website, and functioning as an excellent portfolio for her journalism applications.

“So cool! I got all these amazing photo submissions. I only posted the best ones but there were so many it was hard to choose. I can’t believe Chat is back! It was _incredible_ to see them together again. I wonder where he’s been…?”

Marinette listened patiently to her long list of theories about what it all meant, quietly interjecting every now and then with slightly more sensible suggestions.

She also found herself, for no good reason, blushing quite violently when Alya pulled up one of the photos on her phone and dreamily pointed out how much “hotter” Chat had become. Alya had always been a Ladybug fan first and foremost, but she was not the kind of girl to not notice certain things like sculpted abs and well-shaped butts. Marinette cleared her throat, pretending her cheeks weren’t burning, and told herself that it was perfectly acceptable for people to ogle her partner, who was indeed a very good-looking man. There was absolutely no reason to feel strange about it.

All the same, she was glad when Alya changed the subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these girls <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this chapter was planned out so differently in my head. I rewrote it like 5 times and pretty much every time the kiddos refused to do what I wanted them to, so in the end I gave up and let them have their own way. Y they do dis?

“Remind me why I’m doing this again,” Marinette grumbled.

“Because Adrien is just soooo gorgeous?” teased Tikki from the depths of her handbag.

“Nope.”

“Because… he’s rich and will probably pay, so you can get a really fancy coffee?”

“No—though now you mention that, it might be a selling point…”

“Because you love Alya and would do anything for her and Nino?”

“That’s the one.”

“You can do it! I believe in you!”

“Aww, thanks, Tikki.” Marinette sometimes wondered how she had got through life before Tikki had been gifted to her. She adored the tiny kwami and appreciated her constant efforts to make Marinette believe in herself. It was like having a miniature ray of sunshine at all times.

_Well, I guess I’d better go in_.

Hoping to get there before Adrien did and thus gain the psychological upper hand, she had turned up a good ten minutes early. Alya, who was terrifyingly good at accurately interpreting body language and using it to her own ends, had taught her all sorts of tricks that helped in situations like this—things like picking one’s own table so as to make another person feel less in control, deliberately not mirroring someone’s stance (sitting when they stood, and vice versa), or using eye contact to guide a conversation between three or more people. Marinette was a bit too much of a people-pleaser to be quite as ruthless as her journalist friend, but it helped to have some level of resources on her side.

Unfortunately, this was one time when Alya’s advice failed her spectacularly.

For one thing, Adrien was already there. She recognised him simply from the back of his head—she was a little annoyed at herself for this, but then again, he had sat in front of her at _collège_ for several years. He was sitting at a table in the corner, near where they had all sat the other day.

For another, he wasn’t alone. He was with Chloé Bourgeois.

Marinette did her best to push down the mixture of negative emotions that always overcame her whenever she saw her former classmate. She always tried to tell herself that they were both adults now—sensible, grown-up women in their twenties. Petty feuds from their teenage years shouldn’t be an issue. Sure, Chloé had all but bullied her, had mocked her and been rude to her and made her life miserable on many an occasion, but Marinette had learned enough to be able to recognise her own flaws and knew that some of the problems had been of her own making too. She should be perfectly capable of polite conversation, if nothing else, when the situation called for it.

This logical train of thought never seemed to have any impact on her gut feelings, which informed her that Chloé was bad news and should be avoided at all costs.

She stood awkwardly by the door, hoping neither of them would notice her, and wondered what the hell she should do. Were they on a date? _Of course Adrien would date Chloé. Five years ago he told us he didn’t want to be friends with her any more unless she stopped being so nasty to people. Now, of course, he’s all over her—because he’s just like her._ Despite her insistence to Alya that this meeting was not a date, the fact that Adrien had apparently scheduled her in between all the _other_ girls he was meeting for coffee did not exactly sit comfortably.

She glanced over at them again. It was the first time she’d seen Chloé in person for a couple of years, but she hadn’t changed at all. Same long, sleek, blonde hair that seemed to behave itself in ways Marinette’s never did. Same perfect skin and immaculate makeup that always seemed to have somehow been Photoshopped, it was so flawless. Same pretty, calculating blue eyes. Same arrogant smirk that ever so slightly spoiled the overall effect of beauty, giving Chloé’s features a hardness that was subtle but always present. She was also wearing some absolutely gorgeous clothes that Marinette instantly approved of in spite of herself—a pair of heeled strappy sandals that managed to make her feet (which were _at least_ two sizes bigger than Marinette’s) dainty and fairylike, and a yellow summer dress that did not fool Marinette’s eyes in the slightest despite its apparent simplicity. Her own outfit, a plain white blouse and knee-length tulle skirt she’d made herself, suddenly felt shabby and unsophisticated.

Chloé was twirling a strand of her around her fingers in what seemed to be a flirtatious gesture, leaning forward across the table as she talked to Adrien. Marinette felt a wave of dislike for her. She wondered if Adrien was on this date of his own free will, or whether he’d been coerced into it. _Of course he’s here of his own free will. He’s an adult man. He can do what he likes._

She was about to turn tail and flee home, possibly texting Adrien to say she’d forgotten about the date—er, not date, _meeting_ —and now couldn’t make it, when the unthinkable happened and Chloé’s eyes flicked up to meet hers.

Marinette froze, rooted to the spot, and gulped. _Merde._

Chloé’s baby blues widened with something that looked horribly like delight. Marinette heard her say, loudly enough for it to carry across the café, “Oh, look, Adrien! It’s the Dupain-Cheng girl from school!”

_If I could wrap my yoyo around you right now, I think I’d let you dangle off the Eiffel Tower for an hour or so,_ thought Marinette viciously. Adrien, of course, turned round to look for her. When he spotted her, a huge grin lit up his face and he waved enthusiastically, then beckoned for her to come and join them.

_I’m doing this for Alya… I’m doing this for Alya,_ she chanted to herself as she made her way over to them. _I’m going to buy the most expensive pastry this place sells and make Adrien pay for it._

“Hey, Mari!” said Adrien happily when she got to their table. “You’re here early!”

“Yeah, I—um—took an earlier bus,” she invented wildly.

“Oh, you didn’t drive today?”

It sounded like he was just making polite conversation, but Marinette narrowed her eyes at him. “No; I didn’t feel like risking my life in case _you_ were driving here,” she said sweetly.

Adrien looked taken aback for a second, and then grinned. “Good shout,” he commented.

Marinette pursed her lips. It irritated her far more than it should that he never seemed to be bothered by anything she said to him, no matter how rude. She deliberately turned away from him and looked at Chloé, who was pretending to be deeply absorbed in a study of her own (immaculate) nail varnish.

“Hey, Chloé.”

“Oh—Marinette! It _is_ Marinette, isn’t it?”

Marinette kept a horribly false smile on as she nodded. Alya, if she had been there, would have recognised it instantly as a signal of impending doom. “That’s right. How are you?”

“Oh, you know, fine,” drawled Chloé. “I’ve just got back from a trip to London, actually. _So_ fabulous there—though of course they know _nothing_ about fashion.” She tittered—there was no other word for it—and then added, “You know what I mean, don’t you, Adrien, darling? Just _appalling_. Far too much grey for my tastes.” (Marinette automatically smoothed her tulle skirt, which was a silvery grey.) “Oh, didn’t you dabble in fashion every now and then, Marinette? How’s that working out for you?”

Marinette thought wildly, _I can’t throttle her in public, the newspapers would have a field day._

“Marinette works for a tailor,” Adrien answered for her. “Don’t you, Mari?”

_Thanks, Adrien, you’re SO helpful._ “That’s right,” said Marinette through gritted teeth. Chloé’s eyes widened gleefully.

“Oh, how—er—dedicated of you! Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll have your big break one day.” She flashed a smirk that had Marinette just itching to transform and show Chloé a thing or two. Her career choices were _none_ of Chloé’s business. She fumed, clenching her fists tightly.

Either sensing that she might have gone a little too far or simply getting bored with her new game, Chloé grabbed her Louis Vuitton handbag and stood up. With her heels on, she towered a good few inches over Marinette, who had stupidly decided to wear pumps today.

“Not that it hasn’t been fascinating to see you again, Marguerite—I mean, Marinette—but I really must dash, you’ve just reminded me I have an appointment with my hair stylist. Adrien, darling, it’s just been _wonderful_ to see you.” Adrien had got to his feet as well, making Marinette feel that she was about three feet high between the pair of them. Chloé embraced him and kissed him noisily on both cheeks, then left, trailing a cloud of expensive perfume and a singsong “You two have fun!” behind her.

Crossing her arms, Marinette summoned all her strength and glared up at the blond giant beside her. For the first time, something in her eyes seemed to actually penetrate Adrien’s apparent imperviousness to her frustration; he flushed slightly and even deigned to look slightly apologetic.

“Can I get you something to eat and drink?” he offered.

She hesitated. Part of her wanted to demand whether he had deliberately invited Chloé just to humiliate her. After all, he did know of their history, and for all she knew, this new Adrien might do that kind of thing for fun. But she couldn’t help acknowledging that he hadn’t really done anything wrong. He was allowed to meet other girls. It wasn’t like she had any claim over him—completely the opposite, in fact; she couldn’t be less connected to him if she tried. And kicking up a fuss about his choice of girlfriends was hardly the way to show that she didn’t care about what he did with his free time.

Also, she _really_ wanted a coffee.

“Yes please,” she said at last. “ _Café au lait_. And a _mille-feuille._ ” If she was going to spend some time alone with Adrien Agreste, she would definitely need a giant helping of _crème patissière_ to get through it.

“Sure,” he agreed. “I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you,” she said, with a small smile. He went over to the counter to order it, and she looked down at Chloé’s seat with distaste. It might be petty of her, but she didn’t want to sit in Chloé’s place. Instead, she took the chair opposite Adrien.

Only when she had sat down did the realisation occur to her that it was actually happening. _She was having coffee with Adrien._ Her past self would have been exploding with excitement and terror, but here she was, cool and collected ( _kind of_ , said a sarcastic voice in her head) and not desperate to fling herself into his arms. For the first time, she found herself wondering whether her adoration for Adrien—for the old Adrien, anyway—was justified. Had she put him on a pedestal? Was it unfair of her to expect him to live up to all those impossible standards she was sure he was capable of attaining?

He came back to the table and she pushed down the uncomfortable thoughts. She would think this over later.

“It’s on its way,” he explained, with another one of those thousand-kilowatt smiles.

“Thank you,” she said again, shifting in her chair. He was upsettingly perfect as he sat opposite her—it made her feel incredibly self-conscious. His hair, cut short at the sides but a little longer where it curled over his forehead, was tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, and he was wearing a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His eyes looked very green.

_Why am I angry at him again?_

_…C’mon, Mari, pull yourself together!_

“I’m sorry about Chloé,” he said, to her astonishment. “I know she can be a bit… much. It was actually quite nice to catch up with her, though.”

“Oh, so you _are_ capable of apologising?”

The words tumbled out of Marinette’s mouth before she could stop them, and then it was too late to catch them back and she stared at him, horrified.

There was a quite significant silence.

Then Adrien, grinning slightly, said, “Is this where you call me a dick again?”

Marinette, cherry-red, started babbling just like she had the other day. “No, no, I’m so sorry, that was incredibly rude of me, I didn’t mean to say—”

“Yes you did,” said Adrien calmly. “Go on. Spit it out.”

“Excuse me?”

Adrien leaned back in his chair. He had once more assumed that intensely irritating air of arrogant laziness that somehow rubbed Marinette in all the wrong ways. “Spit it out,” he repeated. “Just tell me whatever it is that’s been making you look like you’ve stuck a finger in an electric socket ever since I saw you the other day.”

_In an electric socket?_ Marinette bristled with indignation. “As if you don’t know!” she snapped.

“No, I don’t.” His eyes snapped at her in a kind of laughing challenge. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ve been nothing but nice to you. And _you_ have been incredibly rude.”

So he had noticed. Why hadn’t he said anything? Marinette felt angry and embarrassed and confused all at once.

“You could have made me have a serious accident!” she blurted out. “And you didn’t even say sorry to me!”

Adrien continued to look at her coolly. After a moment or two, he said: “That’s it?”

“What do you mean, that’s it?” she squawked. “Nearly killing me is enough, don’t you think?”

The waitress, bringing Marinette’s coffee and cake on a tray, gave them a distinctly alarmed look as she placed the drink in front of her. Marinette, flustered, gave her a smile that she hoped didn’t look too manufactured, and the waitress left.

“You aren’t having anything to drink?”

Adrien shook his head. “I had something earlier. But do continue—I believe you mentioned me trying to kill you?”

She glared at him. “This isn’t funny.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“You know,” Marinette said, throwing caution to the wind, “I don’t think I like you very much anymore.”

He leaned forwards, propping his chin in one hand. Marinette noticed, and hated herself for doing so, that he had rather nice forearms. “And that’s supposed to bother me?”

She floundered. He kept saying the exact opposite of everything she was expecting him to. It was incredibly annoying. “No,” she began furiously, before changing her mind. “Well, actually, yes! I thought we were friends!” In spite of herself, a little hurt entered her tone.

Adrien gave her a quick, startled look, this time free of what she was beginning to mentally designate his ‘model mask’; then he looked down at the table.

“We were. Are. I hope.” His voice was more serious now. “Don’t doubt that, Marinette.”

She picked up a fork and stabbed it into the _mille-feuille_ , infuriated at herself for how much she liked how he said her name. _I DO NOT HAVE A CRUSH ON ADRIEN AGRESTE. I DO NOT HAVE—_

“The thing is,” Adrien continued, “I’ve spent a lot of my life apologising for things. And when I left—when I left Paris, I promised myself I’d _stop_ apologising for everything.”

She looked at him directly, her attention caught. “But this _was_ your fault,” she pointed out.

“And for that, well, I do apologise.” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a grin. “ _Mademoiselle_ , _je suis vraiment desolé de vous avoir dérangé._ I’ve been told I do drive recklessly at times. A bad habit.”

Marinette returned to playing with her pastry, neither accepting nor rejecting his apology. She still had no idea what to make of all this. It wasn’t exactly how she’d imagined this meeting going.

“But,” he added, “I don’t intend to say sorry for anything else. I know I’m different. I don’t care.”

Marinette jumped. Those green eyes were blazing into hers now, so intense she couldn’t look away. “How did you—what do you—”

“Oh, c’mon, you’re easier to read than a child’s first picture book,” he scoffed. He put on a high falsetto. “ _Oh, Adrien, you’ve changed! Why aren’t you the nice boy I used to know?_ ”

She couldn’t decide whether to deny it, get angry, or laugh. She settled for none of them, instead cramming a bite of delicious, vanilla-infused custard and flaky pastry into her mouth. _Still not as good as Maman’s._

“So,” said Adrien serenely, leaning back in his chair, though never taking his gaze off her. “Now that we’ve established that we’re both all grown up, shall we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adrien: *tries to stand up for himself for once* *comes across as a huge idiot*   
> Bless his little designer cotton socks.  
> Btw, the reason his apology is in French is that it somehow sounds more sarcastic not in English. It's not intended to sound mocking, but it's not exactly the world's most genuine apology either. 'Deranger' means 'to upset/bother/disturb', so it's a bit like saying 'I'm soooo sorry I inconvenienced you'.  
> Also, Chloé's dress: https://www.tarajarmon.com/en_uk/robe-mia-25101.html <3 <3


	7. Chapter 7

“Fine. What is it you want to talk about?”

Before Marinette’s eyes, the cool, collected Adrien who still felt like a stranger melted away, and in his place was someone whose eyes were lit up with excitement and affection, making him look about seventeen.

He said enthusiastically: “I want to throw a party!”

Marinette put her fork down. She was beginning to feel distinctly dizzy. Ever since she’d met Adrien, she’d had a very fixed and definite idea of him. Quiet, gentlemanly, sweet, and occasionally a little goofy when the mood struck him. But now she was having to reconcile so many different sides of him that she couldn’t really believe they were all the same person. There was the irresponsible driver, the gorgeous but slightly pretentious model, the party boy, the arrogant douche…

…The boy who had been overwhelmed by Nino’s request to be best man, the boy who had called himself a ‘shit friend’, the boy whose childhood had been silently overshadowed, the boy who was tired of constantly apologising.

And then there was this Adrien, who was practically bouncing in his seat with delight at his own plan.

“A surprise engagement party!” he burst out. “For Nino and Alya! I want to hire a big hall and invite all their friends and family, and have a cake, and music, and _balloons_ , and champagne—lots of champagne—and—and—whatever else you have at engagement parties.”

 _Oh no_. Marinette gulped. _I think I preferred it when he was mean and rude_. This was definitely not helping her get over her crush. At this rate, Adrien Agreste was going to end up giving her whiplash.

“Okay,” she heard herself saying.

“You think it’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, I do, actually. I was thinking of organising something—not on that scale, exactly, but with someone else to plan things with it’ll be easier.”

“So you’ll help?” That thousand kilowatt smile again. She felt herself sinking into his vibrant green eyes.

“I’ll help,” she promised.

“Thank you!” He was practically incandescent with joy. “I just really want to make it up to Nino, you know? He’s been such an amazing friend, and I—”

For a second, just a heartbeat, Adrien’s face dropped, and Marinette caught a glimpse of the painful guilt she thought she had seen the other day. Then he made a visible effort to plaster the smile back on his face. _Why does he do that?_ she thought. _All that rubbish about being done with apologies, but he still feels he has to put this mask on._

“—I just want to celebrate their engagement in _style_ ,” he was saying. He became abruptly business-like. “There’s a big hotel just down the road from my block of flats; I was thinking of hiring their function room.”

“Not _Le Grand Paris_?” interjected Marinette, with just a hint of sarcasm. “I’m sure Chloé’s father would give you an excellent deal.”

Adrien’s lips twitched. “I just figured it might be nice for Alya’s mother not to have to cater for her daughter’s party.”

“How wise of you.” She ate another mouthful of her pastry to hide a smile that she couldn’t entirely suppress.

“ _Merci_. Now, I’m relying on you to find a good date when Alya is free—I’ll cross-reference with Nino. And you’ll have to help me with the _décor_ , of course. And—”

Marinette was impressed at the sheer scope of his plans. When she tentatively brought up the issue of cost, it was waved away instantly. If it had been anything else, she would have been irritated by the casual disregard for money, which in her small world was one of the concerns that dominated everyday life; but Alya and Nino deserved the best, and they were going to get it, dammit. She became engrossed in the planning, barely noticing when Adrien ordered another coffee for them both, and starting a list of things to do in the notebook she always carried around with her.

It wasn’t until she got a text from Alya (asking how the ‘date’ was going) and glanced at her phone screen that she realised it was somehow half past five. How on earth had that happened?

“I should go,” she sighed, regarding the double-page spread she had filled with notes. They certainly had made a good start, anyway. “I have loads to do before work tomorrow.”

Adrien downed the last of his coffee. “All right,” he agreed. Even his bottomless well of excitement had been temporarily drained. “But we’ll meet up again next week and compare notes?”

“ _Oui, oui_.” Marinette rolled her eyes. “Same time, same place?”

“Sounds good to me.” Adrien watched her as she tucked the notebook back into her handbag. She could feel his gaze, almost as if it was something physical settling over her skin. She wished she didn’t have such a tangible reaction to it, a faint tingling that heightened the blush on her cheeks. “So, what work do you have to do?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing major, just a couple of alterations. Claude—that’s my boss—gets most of the exciting stuff, like actually making clothes, but he says in a few years he might start delegating some to me.” She felt more at ease talking to him now, which was a relief.

“A few years?” said Adrien. “Hmm. Where do you work, then?”

“ _Retoucherie Girard._ We specialise in men’s clothing, but we do adjustments or alterations on most things. I’ve been working there for a couple of years now—Claude took me on even though I had pretty much no experience other than my degree. For a while I just did shifts behind the counter, but now he gives me work to take home.”

 “And do you enjoy working there?”

There was a faint note of something almost like accusation in his tone that made Marinette answer defensively.

“I’m working in my chosen career field. Isn’t that more than what most graduates can say these days?”

“That’s not what I asked,” he pointed out quietly.

“Of course I enjoy it,” she retorted. “I’m getting plenty of experience. That’s what counts in the fashion industry. You of all people should know that.”

He looked at her, eyes slightly narrowed, as if he was turning thoughts over in his head. “And how many hours a week do you work?”

“Why do you want to know?” she demanded, irritated.

“It just seems to me that this Claude is taking advantage of you.”

“Excuse me?!”

“You said you couldn’t spare much time to see me because of work—on a weekend. I saw Nino the other night and he said you’re always busy, and Alya doesn’t really see much of you these days.” Marinette spluttered. _Nino, you traitor!_ “You’re doing labour-intensive, menial tasks that are probably exceptionally poorly paid, all for the vague promise of ‘experience’ and a more concrete career path ‘ _in a few years_ ’. It doesn’t sound like a dream job to me, that’s all.”

Furious at how Adrien was poking at an already sore subject (and one upon which Chloé had touched earlier), Marinette flushed again, though with anger this time. “I never said it was a dream job!” she snapped. “No one lands their dream job at my age!”

“Alya is well on her way there. Nino has. And I’m doing pretty well for myself.” He said this calmly, with no trace of arrogance for once, but she was too angry to appreciate it.

“I can’t believe you’re belittling me for daring to _work_ for my career, rather than having it landed in my lap!” she shot at him. “Unlike you, a mention of _my_ surname doesn’t open doors wherever I go!”

He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t—”

“I happen to believe that you have to put effort into anything if you want to be rewarded, and personally I’d much rather feel like I’ve actually earned my success,” she continued cuttingly, and was vindictively gratified when he looked down and clenched his jaw, evidently feeling the sting of the insult. “I’d like to hear what magical solution you have that will suddenly give me the advantage over all the other aspiring designers in Paris who are taking on unpaid internships in the hope it’ll get them somewhere.”

“Fine,” Adrien snapped back. “I think you should start a business.”

“What?” She was so surprised it came out as a breathless gasp. “Are you mad?”

“Of course I’m not. You should start your own business. You could open a shop. Launch your own fashion line. Do some alterations too, but only if you wanted. Actually do work you enjoy.”

Marinette floundered for the second time that day. She had the unsettling, panicky feeling that the world was suddenly widening around her. She liked it the way it was—small and familiar and comforting, even when it was mundane or difficult. The idea of change, and a change so monumental, was simply impossible to consider.

“I—I couldn’t!”

“Why not?” The challenging look was back.

“Because starting a business requires way too many skills I don’t have!”

 “Then learn,” he suggested.

“It’s not that simple!”

“Maybe you only think that because you haven’t tried.”

“Where the hell do you get the idea I have the _money_ for this kind of venture?!” she screeched, loudly enough to draw disapproving glances from the surrounding tables. Yelling in public was what the English did.

Adrien shrugged. “If you wanted to do it badly enough, you’d work it out.”

For one second, she was sure he was riling her up on purpose. Then she decided that she was too angry to care. With sharp, impatient movements, she picked up her notebook, shoved it into her bag, got to her feet, and glared down (or, rather, glared _across_ , given that he wasn’t far off her eye-level even when he was seated) at Adrien.

“You are _impossible_ ,” she ground out. “I’m leaving.”

“See you next week,” he said, smirking.

 

* * *

 

 

“Well, that went well.”

“Tikki, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But it did go well!” persisted the kwami. “Most of it. You didn’t throw coffee on him! And he apologised!”

“Barely,” Marinette pointed out. “And then he ruined it all by being a twat again.”

“What’s a twat?”

Marinette glanced down at Tikki, peeking out of the handbag with large, innocent eyes. “Um… never mind.”

“I think the party is a great idea!” enthused the tiny god. “I’m so excited for you to help Adrien plan it!”

Marinette wanted to be excited, she really did, but she was still fuming about _Maybe you only think that because you haven’t tried._ She didn’t answer, walking down the road so fast she was beginning to lose her breath.

“Marinette?”

“What?”

“Isn’t the car the other way?”

Marinette skidded to a halt. “Ugh!” she exclaimed. _This is definitely his fault. I don’t know how, but it is._ She stormed back in the opposite direction, now equal parts annoyed and frustrated. Oh well—maybe the exercise would work some of the fury off. She didn’t really know why she was so angry, just that she wanted to grab Adrien by the shoulders, look him in the eye, and—her brain went off on a little wander, and she just caught it back in time—and _SHAKE_ him. Obviously. What else could she want from him? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Her phone started to ring when she’d nearly retraced all her steps. She fished it impatiently out of her pocket and snapped, “Well?”

“Mari? What’s wrong?” Alya’s voice was instantly full of concern. “Are you okay?”

Marinette sighed, regretting her temper. “Hi, Alya. Sorry. I’m fine, I just… Adrien drives me crazy.”

“What happened? Do I need to hire a hitman?”

“Ugh… no.” She felt some of the tension drain out of her at hearing her best friend’s voice. Alarmingly, tears rose to take its place. Horrified, she beat them back. No way would she _cry_ over Adrien. This was ridiculous. “It’s fine. I just got annoyed at him because he said I should quit my job and start up my own business.”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, so long that Marinette actually took it away from her ear to check she hadn’t accidentally hung up or put Alya on mute. She hadn’t.

“Alya? You still there?”

“You totally _should_ start up a business,” breathed Alya. “You’d be amazing at it!”

“Not you too!” Marinette groaned, starting to laugh in spite of herself. “Surely I don’t have to explain to you why it’s impossible?”

“Mari, c’mon, can you imagine? You could design and sell all your clothes! And do a tailor-made service! You’re already gonna make my wedding dress—I’ll be your first client! Aw, do it, Mari, please…”

Marinette chewed her lip. She knew if Alya knew how badly she’d reacted to Adrien, she wouldn’t be pushing the issue, but she also just wanted the topic to be done with. “Well, we could talk about my career plans, or we could talk about the fact that Adrien was having coffee with _Chloé Bourgeois_ before I got there.”

“ _WHAT?!”_

“Ow!”

“Sorry. What did you just say? Did you say Adrien was with Chloé? Did I hear that right?”

“Yep.” Marinette told Alya about the bitchy comments. Alya called Chloé a word that made Marinette gasp and reprove her.

“Oh, calm down, you’re like an old spinster. She _is_ , anyway. I don’t know why Adrien hangs out with her. What did he want in the end?”

 _Merde._ Marinette had forgotten to plan out an answer that wasn’t ‘He wants to plan a secret engagement party for you and Adrien’. She panicked.

“Umm… he just wanted to, uhh…” _GIVE ME SOMETHING, BRAIN! ANYTHING!_ “…To, uh, talk about… you and Nino.” _NOT THAT!_

“I know that,” said Alya impatiently. “What about us? I’ve been dying of curiosity all day.”

“He umm…” Inspiration struck. “He wanted to ask me about your relationship! For the speech. The best man’s speech.” _I’m a genius._ “Like, if there’s anything major he’s missed, stuff like that.”

“Ohh.” Alya sounded relieved. “That’s actually a great idea.”

 _Oh no,_ Marinette realised. _Now I’m gonna have to make sure he actually does that with me._

“Yeah! That’s what I thought.”

“You didn’t tell him about the Polish karaoke bar, did you?”

“No, Alya, I didn’t. Though now you mention it, it _is_ one of my favourite stories…”

“Mari!”

“I’m gonna text him as soon as you hang up.”

“Marinette!!”

“Byeeeee,” she called sweetly, ending the call, though not before she could hear Alya’s impotent screeching at the other end.

She grinned to herself. It was rare for Alya not to get the last word in, but when it happened, it was a triumph to be savoured. Feeling better, she stuck her phone away and said, “Come on, Tikki, let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo... Not to bring you guys down or anything, but things are pretty shit for me right now. A couple of weeks ago, on the night of our first wedding anniversary, my husband and I found out we have lost our third baby at just six weeks of pregnancy. It's honestly... not how I would have expected my first year of marriage to pan out. I've had some really incredible times and I'm lucky enough to have married my best friend and the love of my life, but I'm really struggling at the moment to cope with all the physical and mental effects of multiple miscarriages and I'm just so fricking fed up of feeling ill and pathetic and sad. Ughhh.  
> Anyway: sorry to overshare, but a) it kind of helps and b) it's the reason I've been so slow in updating! I've finally got my head round to a space where I can write a bit more so hopefully chapters will be more regular from now on. I ugly-cry every time I get a kind comment. I can't even explain how amazing it is that people are reading this silly little story and actually liking it! You guys are awesome! <3  
> About this chapter: 1) The Polish karaoke bar is a story that happened to me. I am not proud of it. 2) My husband is super protective of me and has been known to nag me about my editing job because it started out basically as an unpaid internship. I'm now manager of a team, less than a year later, and the Senior Editor, so it's paid off pretty well - but it still infuriates me every time he tells me I'm letting people take advantage of me. At the same time, I know it comes from a place of wanting me to have everything I want without ever suffering for it, so I appreciate his concern. Hopefully you guys can see that the same goes for Adrien, and he's not ENTIRELY being dickish here... even if he needs to work on his communication skills.  
> P.S.: I've also been working as a Beta for imthepunchlord. On the off chance you haven't read her incredible works of genius yet, head over and check them out. Lucky Fox Paradox is what I'm working on now! :)


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